by Mike Maden
“Are you denying the fact we have the most powerful and technologically advanced military on the planet?” Floyd asked.
“No. But the systems we acquire are often over budget, off schedule, buggy, and behind the technology curve the day they’re deployed. The Pentagon only knows what it knows, so it keeps acquiring weapons systems for battles it plans on fighting. The problem is, it never does fight those wars—and every war we lose is to technologically inferior opponents. We haven’t fought a carrier duel since the Battle of Leyte Gulf in 1944, but we’re building three thirteen-billion-dollar Ford-class aircraft carriers to add to our fleet of ten Nimitz-class carriers. Currently the Russians have one carrier. Same with the Chinese.” Pearce’s voice trailed off. “At least, until recently.” He was suddenly distracted by the memory.
Earlywine nodded gravely. “A terrible tragedy.”
“My older brother was killed at the Chosin Reservoir. I’m not losing any sleep over it,” Floyd said.
“You’re suggesting we have too many carriers, Mr. Pearce?” Kelly asked.
The question snapped Pearce back to reality. “Not my department, sir. But I do know that both the Russians and the Chinese are pursuing hypersonic ‘carrier-killer’ missile programs, each at a fraction of the cost of a single American aircraft carrier. And such missiles are, technically, drones.”
“But wouldn’t you agree that our military technology, including carrier technology, is key to our continued military dominance?” Floyd asked. “Just look at the F-35. It’s the world’s finest air-superiority fighter.”
“We’re all familiar with the F-35 budget boondoggle and the ongoing technical problems it suffers, including the bugs that kill our pilots. We also know some of that technology has been hacked by Chinese cyberwarfare. The only problem with building an overly expensive and underperforming air-superiority fighter is that we haven’t fought an air-superiority engagement in over twenty-five years. No disrespect to anyone in the room or in this building, but we’re going to lose the next war because we’re spending too much money on the wrong systems for the wrong battles for the wrong reasons.”
“And what would those reasons be?” Kelly asked.
“The fact that the F-35 Lightning is manufactured in forty-five states and Puerto Rico tells me a lot about the procurement process.”
“Like what, Mr. Pearce?”
“Defense procurement is more about securing votes back home than it is about acquiring the best weapons systems at the least expense.”
“That’s quite an indictment of the people in this room and in this building, Mr. Pearce.”
Pearce glanced over at Grafton. Her frozen smile and desperate eyes told him to stand down. He thought about everything that Chandler and Grafton had warned him about. But he couldn’t play the game. “I suppose it is,” Pearce said. “Respectfully.”
“And your little department is going to right the ship?”
“We’re going to give it one helluva try, at least as far as drone technologies go.”
Senator Kelly broke in. “No offense, Mr. Pearce, but you’re just one man with considerable but still limited experience with drone operations. What makes you think you’re more qualified or better at predicting the future than the Pentagon in these matters?”
“I’m not. Not at all. I have no idea what the next war will look like. Maybe it will be a carrier duel in the Pacific or the Battle of Britain 2.0. But nobody knows because nobody can predict the future, including the Pentagon. That’s why it’s better to let the technology determine the path forward rather than for any of us to try and guess the future.”
“The Pentagon has been rushing headlong into drone development. Why do they need you and this new department?”
“The Pentagon has a bad record regarding drones. The basic technology is from the nineteenth century—the first patent for what we would call a drone was issued to Nikola Tesla back in 1898. The Pentagon—especially the air force and other flying services—fought like hell to ignore it for decades. It was the CIA that finally shoved their noses into the technology when the air force couldn’t provide needed surveillance over Bosnia in the early 1990s during our air campaign against the Serbs. It was only after civilians had developed the technology and pumped live video images of enemy combatants to commanders in the field and back in the Pentagon that the Predator’s extreme value became understood. In other words, the Pentagon often doesn’t know what’s possible. My job is to show them what’s possible and then let them decide how they might want to use it without the technology getting sidetracked by the lobbyists and log rollers. National security shouldn’t be sold to the highest bidder.”
Kelly shook his bald head. “I’m the Pentagon’s number one fan up here. I think our men and women in uniform do an amazing job defending this country, day in and day out.”
Pearce swore Kelly was looking for a camera to bloviate into while he was delivering his campaign speech. He kept his temper in check. “I support the troops as well, Senator. It’s the waste, fraud, and abuse of the Pentagon procurement system I question.” Pearce wanted to tell the old bastard off. Too many retired congressmen landed on the corporate boards of big defense contractors or as partners in big K Street lobbying firms after spending their congressional careers bloating the defense budget on behalf of their future employers. But President Lane deserved better than him flying off the handle.
“My state is home to some of the nation’s finest defense contractors. I’m one of those old-fashioned people who happen to believe that national security wouldn’t be possible without them,” Earlywine said.
“I agree with you. And if any contractor—big or small—comes up with a viable system, I’d take a look at it. But the days of negotiated weapons designs have to be over. What’s the old saying? Camels are horses designed by committees?”
“And so you’d be the person to make the call? What about congressional oversight?”
“Oversight, yes, but not micromanagement. And to tell the truth, I wouldn’t trust me, either. So let me run with this thing for two years. See what we can come up with. If I drop the ball, can me. Better yet, I’ll quit. But President Lane trusts me to do what’s best for the country, not what’s best for him or for his party. I’m making that same promise to you today. How well I do it is for you to decide.”
Floyd coughed, a wheezing smoker’s hack. When the phlegm cleared, he leaned into the microphone, his head resting in his big farmer’s hand. “You must think we’re a bunch of moneygrubbing dimwits up here on the Hill, pissing away the national treasury while we play with ourselves.”
“Senator Floyd, I assure you, Mr. Pearce means nothing but respect—”
Pearce cut her off. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way, Senator,” Pearce said. “But I’d like you to prove me wrong.”
Floyd’s blue eyes bored into his. “I appreciate your candor, Mr. Pearce.”
Grafton gaped at Pearce in shocked disbelief. He had crossed the line.
The committee spent another hour grilling Pearce on foreign policy and security issues. Pearce repeatedly deferred to administration officials tasked with those policies, and the informal hearing ended on a polite but formal note. Pearce seemed satisfied but it was clear to Grafton that the Drone Command pooch was officially and royally screwed.
20
GREATER LANDOVER, MARYLAND
The eight-bladed octocopter sped toward FedExField, an ominous cargo box fixed beneath its fuselage. It flew at an altitude of 125 feet, high enough to clear the upper tier of seats in the open-air complex. At full capacity, the Washington Redskins FedExField could accommodate nearly eighty thousand cheering fans whose attention would be focused on the game, not on terror in the sky.
The drone roared forward at more than sixty miles per hour. It was only seconds away from breaching the airspace directly above the stadium when it suddenly slowed a
nd wobbled before making a violent 180-degree turn, its speed plummeting as it dived toward the asphalt. It settled on its skids just two yards away from Pearce, standing in the parking lot.
“Impressive,” Pearce said as the eight motors cut off. His back was to the olive drab Iveco Light Multirole Vehicle (LMV), the Italian version of a Humvee. An array of radar, sensors, and cameras—optical, infrared, and thermal imaging—were fixed on a rotating turret along with a dish and what appeared to be a firing tube. He heard the rear doors open and the heavy thud of boots hitting the ground.
Wes Klein flashed his used-car-salesman smile. The forty-two-year-old former submariner and Annapolis grad built his own security company based on a license for the Selex ES Falcon Shield combat system. His techs improved on the Falcon Shield with a few proprietary tweaks to the software and hardware. “My rig works as advertised. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Run it through whatever tests you’ve got.”
Pearce shrugged. “The specs on paper look good. It’s the real-world stuff that usually bites you in the ass.” Klein’s system was similar to the Israeli Drone Dome. He was hoping it was even better.
“You can swap out a number of components and customize the Falcon Shield according to the threat profile.”
“But essentially the strength of your system is you get a visual lock on the target, and then you can take it out?”
“Visual, electro-optical, and signal lock. We have radar, too, but it’s hard to pick up the really small ones with it.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.” Pearce hoped Dr. Ponder would come up with a fix on that particular bug in his laser system. “How does the electronic defeat system work?”
Klein shook his close-cropped head. “Segretissimo, old buddy. Top secret. My Italian investors would bris my sizable foreskin with a pair of rusty pliers if I told you.”
Pearce grinned. He liked Klein. Reminded him of his old friend Mike Early, who had a mind as filthy as a coal miner’s butt crack. “But you actually managed to seize control of the unit and were able to fly it?” That was an important feature. Merely disrupting the GPS or controller signals might actually result in a drone flying out of control. With the wrong payload, that could prove just as problematic in a crowded venue as a controlled hostile flight.
“It’s worked on every hobby and commercial drone system we’ve tested so far. We’ve been able to disrupt the signal and seize control of vehicles and land them where we wanted. Of course, we haven’t tested every available system out there—there are way too many of them. But we’re confident this is the way to go for the vast majority of small, civilian UAV threats.”
Pearce thought about the VTOL that had landed at the White House that morning, or even his own test against Ponder’s laser system the day before. “So what do you do about autopiloted vehicles?”
“We’ve been able to seize a few of them, depending on the hardware. But if we can’t seize control, we can deploy a focused high-power microwave to fry the circuitry.”
“Another add-on?”
Klein rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers. “Cha-ching, baby. But it works.”
“Every time?”
“Unless it’s shielded.”
“You mean like a Faraday cage?”
“Or something similar. Again, we’re talking high percentages on kill rates. There aren’t any absolutes in this business.”
Pearce headed for the rear of the LMV. “Any other defeat solutions?”
“You always have the kinetic option.”
“Bullets and missiles in an urban environment?” Pearce asked, poking his head in the back of the truck. The compartment was packed with electronic gear and video monitors.
“Security Ethics 101, friendo. Depends on what the payload is on the drone you’re trying to knock down. A few killed and wounded by your kinetics, or thousands killed and wounded by your adversary.”
“I’m looking for a third option.”
“Have you thought about lasers? That’s something we’re looking into.”
“It’s crossed my mind.” Pearce’s phone rang. It was President Lane. “Excuse me, Wes.”
“Of course. I’ve got to check the gear anyway.” Klein crawled back into the LMV to give Pearce his privacy.
Pearce answered. “Mr. President.”
“Troy, I wanted to give you a heads-up. The FBI came up short on the forensics. No fingerprints, no DNA, no purchase orders to trace, no addresses to raid. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”
“Must’ve been a pro.”
“Yeah, but a ‘pro’ what? Terrorist? Prankster? Social justice warrior?”
“Doesn’t really matter at this point. We just have to wait for the other shoe to drop.”
“Come up with any bright ideas for stopping these hobby drones?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on a few things.”
“Vicki wants you back in her office tomorrow at eleven a.m. You need to start working the phones, pay a few visits. Time to hustle up some votes.”
“I’d rather get tased.”
Lane laughed. “I feel for you, brother. Call me if you need anything.”
How about a rum and Coke? Pearce wanted to ask. Instead, he thanked the president and rang off.
“We good?” Klein asked.
Another dead end, another ticking clock, Pearce thought. He forced a smile. “I’ll be in touch.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was two hours before Grafton appeared at the vice president’s door. He ushered her in and ordered a late lunch for the two of them. They had a lot to discuss, and even more to accomplish.
Chandler leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “So how did our boy do today?”
“Frankly, he shit all over the subcommittee. I’ve just spent the last two hours wearing out my knee pads trying to mend fences with Floyd.” Chandler looked concerned. She quickly added, “Figuratively, of course.”
“Good for Pearce. Nothing like a good evacuation of the bowels to clear the mind.”
“His mind might be cleared, but his chances for getting the nomination are zeroed out. He sinkholed himself, but the administration might be falling in after him.”
“How so?”
“Floyd thinks Lane is going to go all Comanche on his gravy train.”
“Floyd’s half-right. Lane is a reformer at heart. His attention is occupied with the Asia summit at the moment, and now with this crazy drone threat we got today. For now, he’s delegating the heavy lifting to others, including Pearce. Even if the Senate passes on him, they’ve got to know there’ll be others just like him next in line.”
Grafton frowned, confused. “So you support Pearce? I was under the impression you two weren’t on the best of terms.”
“Support him? Heavens no. He’s a first-rate prick.” Chandler’s phone alarm rang. He checked it. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I nearly forgot. I’ve got a meeting with the Saudi ambassador in thirty minutes. You want to come with?” He stood.
“I need to pass. Pearce is coming in. We’ve got a Rolodex of calls to make. Maybe even knock on a few doors.”
“Good luck with that.” Chandler pulled on his suit coat. “At least stay and eat your lunch. You look peckish.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly is your beef with Pearce?”
“We knew each other, briefly. A long time ago. Our time together wasn’t exactly . . . friendly. If you think he’s a hardcase now, you should’ve known him then.”
21
TIKRIT, SALAH AL-DIN PROVINCE, IRAQ
2005
The sun burned high overhead and the air shimmered with stifling heat. The twenty-four newly minted Shia recruits from nearby Samarra stood ramrod straight in the courtyard, roasting alive beneath their brand-new Iraqi army uniforms. Their young, stern faces bea
med with pride and glistened with sweat as Representative Clay Chandler droned on with the help of an overly enthusiastic translator.
Pearce muttered a curse through his bearded lips as another drop of sweat trickled down his collar. The barrel of his carbine was blistering hot even though it hadn’t been fired in days. Bad enough to be out in the middle of this heat. But it was security he was worried about. He and Early stood a nervous watch over the ceremony taking place at the palace—one of maybe a hundred Saddam had built for himself after the first Gulf War. It now served as the headquarters for the regional commander of the Iraqi army, General Ali Majid, a Sunni from a nearby province.
“How much longer with this guy?” Early said. The hulking Ranger whispered in his comms set.
“He’s begging for a mortar round,” Pearce said. He was linked to Early on a secure channel.
“From us or the bad guys?”
Pearce laughed. “Roger that.”
“You should be ashamed.” A thickly accented Kurdish voice whispered in their comms. “He is one of your countrymen.” Tariq Barzani was the third man on the team. Two more team members, Luckett and Rowley, were back in Baghdad for the day.
“Your problem, Mother, is that you Kurds haven’t yet mastered the subtleties of democracy,” Early said. “It’s our constitutional right to hate our elected idiots.”
“And if you ever run short of idiots, we’ve got extras we can send you,” Pearce said. “Plenty more.”
Tariq laughed. “Trust me, we have more than enough of our own.” His hearty laugh filled their headsets. The Kurdish translator had grown close to Pearce and Early since their arrival. The battle-hardened peshmerga was a decade older than they were. He was out beneath the blistering sun with them, working the perimeter. Tariq watched the Americans like a hawk, constantly worrying for their safety. He knew Early and Pearce had fought with Kurdish forces in the liberation of Kirkuk in 2003. This made him feel even more protective of the men he called his “sons.” They returned the favor by calling him Mother, but they were big fans of his, too.